


Rebellion in D

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Could Technically be for DMC Week 2020, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Gen, Jam sessions, Music, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: Nero has about as much spine as a shrew trapped in a bowl of jello, which is to say a very weird amount of spine. But then, teenagers are very weird and Dante gave up trying to parse through it a long time ago. It's not anything bad, it's just Nero hell-bent on teenage rebellion—or whatever counts as it in this family. Dante figures he better help stick it to his dumbass twin anyway, just to keep it from evolving into something worse.
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 85
Collections: Miscellaneous Must-read Fics





	1. First Movement

**Author's Note:**

> -poking docs with a broom- hhhhholy shit this got long and I really did not mean for it to and I'm _absolutely_ griping about it at 9:30 PM. But what's done is done and I have no way to trim it down. 
> 
> This could also technically be for Devil May Cry Week 2020 and I only realized that just yesterday because Day 4 has the theme of Music and well. This has a lot of music and a lot of DMC and a lot of family.

Nero decides to be an utter nuisance at the fine hour of four o’clock in the morning. This works perfectly fine for Dante because he just sicced Trish and Lady on Morrison and has nothing better to do. His nephew appears in a flash of lightning, dripping rain and storming like the sky outside. He marches straight for Dante and before there’s any kind of greeting, he slams his palms down on the desk with a dangerous amount of unmasked rage. 

“Teach me to play the bass.” 

Dante cocks an eyebrow. If he were anything like his brother, he’d start forming a list of all the things wrong with that demand. Fortunately, he isn’t, and he can go about his response with as much chaos as he wants. He starts by being the obnoxious uncle Nero relies on him to be, with the attitude that always drives away the dark cloud Vergil unwittingly casts on the kid. 

“What? No, hello?” 

_“Dante,”_ Nero grits out with a murderous tone. 

“No, ‘ _good morning, uncle whom I so adore, I’m here at the crack of dawn because I’m not super annoying. I love you, Iloveyoualot-’_ ” 

“Fuck’s sake, Dante!” 

Nero, already despairing, flings his hands towards the ceiling and makes a break for the couch. He flops face-down into it and yanks the hood of his jacket up. Dante’s got something to say about Nero adding more water damage to the cushions but he’s reached his goal of making him pissy unusually quick—there is so much teenage angst festering on his couch he figures he should let up before the Devil Bringer claws a gash down his face.

Dante brings his feet down off the desk and slips around the billiards table to sit on the arm of the couch. He pats Nero’s head comfortingly and earns himself a growl for his attempts at being nice. _Rude._ But Nero’s always rude, so nothing can be done. 

“Why do you wanna know how to play the bass?” Dante asks after a stretch of uneasy silence. 

“Because dad sucks.” 

“True,” Dante agrees. He throws his arm over the back and peers curiously down at Nero, barely resisting the urge to poke him with the pool cue he picked up on the way over. “Why does he suck this time?” 

“Piano lessons.” 

Dante, through the sheer power of miracles and luck, and he doesn’t believe in the former, manages not to do a double-take. Vergil is teaching Nero how to play the piano. The statement spins like a broken record on repeat and Dante is forced to let it if his brain is going to register how ludicrous it sounds. It’s not that he has something against the piano. He always listens whenever someone played it, even when he was growing up. He loves it so much his guns—Ebony and Ivory—are named after it’s lovely keys. He can’t count how many vinyls in his jukebox are pure piano solos. But Nero isn’t exactly cut out for sitting still for several hours a day to learn how to master such an instrument and if Vergil thinks otherwise, then there is some severe hell happening in their house. The image actually attacks Dante’s lungs with such ferocity that he keels onto the ground with a volley of boisterous laughter escaping him. 

Nero groans soulfully, unfurling just to scowl at his uncle as he rolls on the floor. “I hate you so much.” 

“Naaaaw,” Dante sounds out through his wheezing. “You don’t. You just hate bullshit.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s just you.” 

“Alright, wise guy.” Dante shifts to his feet and leers over Nero like a menace. “What makes you think I can teach you to play the bass?” 

“Because you know every instrument,” Nero states it with such certainty that Dante would have believed him if he were talking about anyone else. Sure, Dante can play a motley assortment of instruments: drums, ukulele, dabbling of the guitar, and true to his thoughts, piano. Jam sessions are common in Devil May Cry, it’s the only time he can drag Nevan out of the weapons closet and actually count on Vergil not to be a stick in the mud. 

“Not that one.” 

He could learn, probably _._ Most things physical in nature came easy to him, almost like breathing. Hell, Nevan and Trish taught _Lady_ of all people how to play some simple bass riffs, the most unlikely trio he’s ever been savvy with. If she could learn, so could he. It’s basically promised to him by his blood. But Dante’s too invested in needing to know why he has to in order to actually start. 

“Why’s your dad teaching you how to play the piano anyway?”

“Because, I maybe, might have,” Nero struggles to get out. He sinks into his hoodie, averting his eyes to the little nicks in the leather cushions. He’s hardly ever embarrassed, which should tip someone off to the fragility of his mental state at the moment. “Mentioned… that I wanted to learn how to play an instrument.”

 _So Vergil jumped to conclusions and thought piano was the way to go._ Dante makes a noise of understanding. His brother is too damn quick to tolerate sometimes, he can say he knows firsthand that there must be something truly magical about it because no one else makes it art the way Vergil does. The temptation to screw him over is steadily crawling up Dante’s back. To assist in cracking his resolve, Nero is giving him the most painstakingly heartbreaking puppy dog eyes to ever grace the nine circles. 

“But hey, let me tell you something,” Dante says wetly. _Fucking heeeeell,_ if this kid makes him weepy over the bass guitar when there are a million other things to choose from. “Come in tomorrow. Actually, tomorrow, not later today-” He knows Nero is going to hate everyone in a five-mile radius if he doesn’t sleep at least ten hours starting now. “And I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

Nero perks up immediately. He really is a puppy dog now, Dante can even envision the wagging tail and floppy ears and the long tongue dragging out of his mouth. He sighs then bites the bullet and ceremoniously prods Nero with the cue stick. 

“Alright, up, you lump,” he says, two seconds away from hauling Nero onto his feet. “You gotta get home. Vergil will throw a fit if he finds out you’re gone.” 

“Fuck ‘im,” Nero groused, rolling over. A complete mood. “I’m staying here tonight.” 

“At least change into some dry clothes and sleep in the guest room.” 

Nero swears way more than absolutely necessary but he pulls himself off the couch and practically crawls up the stairs to the apartment floor like a blob of slime straight from hell. He can suck it up for what little Dante cares, he has to be a good influence somehow for both Nero’s and Vergil’s sakes. 

* * *

Like Dante predicted, Vergil throws a tantrum when he can’t find his son. He strides into Devil May Cry, copying Nero’s actions motion for motion, and brings his hands down onto the desk like twin drums of thunder. Dante frowns, peering disapprovingly at his brother. His desk has been getting abused a lot lately. 

“Where is he?” Vergil’s voice is dangerous and cool like frost in a hydra’s mouth. 

Dante debates playing dumb but he isn’t so dense as to not catch the tone of voice his brother is using. It has the faint note of distress to it Vergil usually hides behind a veneer of wintry wrath—a blizzard cloaking something much more vicious and needing extreme care to diminish. Vergil tries hard as hell to keep even those who love him from witnessing the softer parts of his soul. It’s cause for concern, especially where Nero is regarded, but Dante learned to pick his battles ages ago, so he lets it be. If someone wants to pry his brother open, they’re welcome to have at it. He’ll treat them to an endless line of drinks if they succeed. 

He jams his thumb toward the catwalk. 

“Sleeping.” 

It’s all the say-so Vergil needs. He warps up to the second floor, there’s the distinct sound of the spare room’s door creaking open. The tension dissipates, barely disturbing the stillness. Dante can’t help the smirk pulling at his lips. He’s seen his brother’s true form. 

Nothing but a softie.

By the time Vergil returns to the catwalk, Dante has relaxed considerably, enough to think about how much fun it’ll be to teach Nero something Vergil won’t. Getting a one-up on his brother is so rare these days when they’re not on a hunt, he’ll take any opportunity he can. Nero is rife with so much desire to be a wild teen, he’s a jackpot full of gold. Dante conceals a grin behind the gun magazine splayed on top of his head and tries not to wiggle around like a cat with a new toy. He fails but if Vergil notices, he, fortunately, doesn’t say anything. 

“He’s not hurt, is he?” Vergil breaks the silence first, not naming who ‘he’ is when they both know. Dante peeks an eye from underneath the magazine. Vergil has relieved all his weight onto the railing guarding the catwalk and is surveying the office like a hawk. 

“Define ‘hurt,’” Dante mouths off.

_“Dante.”_

What a mother fucker. A deep, deep sigh pushes out of Dante’s lungs. He grabs the magazine and flings it onto the desk, crosses his arms, and matches the glare Vergil angles at him fearlessly. 

“Physically, no,” he replies, catching the way Vergil’s shoulders tense as he braces for the slap of words Dante is winding up. There’s no satisfaction in this one and mournfully so, but he has to get the point across somehow. “Emotionally, though, you still have a stick up your ass. You should listen to what Nero has to say, it’s important. He needs you.”

The reaction Vergil has is both visceral and external enough to elicit a sliver of pity from him. He basically melts against the railing, his eyes sliding to the adjacent wall in a convincing impression of humility. Last night was definitely his fault. Good. That means Dante can help fix it. Hopefully. 

“I would if he’d talk to me.” 

_‘There it is,’_ Dante thinks. The bane of their family’s existence.

Vergil says nothing for a good while. There isn’t a hint as to what happened the previous night that would send Nero straight to Devil May Cry to escape the suffocating atmosphere of their most recent fight. It’s no mystery how and why they argue, they can’t communicate their feelings to save their own skin, it’s like that for every single one of them. They didn’t have well-adjusted guardians to rear them, instruct them on kindness and sharing and politeness and a good heart to be empathetic enough to love the world in all its wretchedness. But devil hunters don’t exist to receive therapy to make their lives better, they just kill demons, burn money, dress to impress, and drink like Machiavelli is coming to harvest their organs. They’re there to appreciate the little things in life. 

Dante digresses. 

It’s not Nero’s rap he doesn’t understand how to talk from the heart, it’s not Vergil’s either. Still, he wishes they’d stop being stupid and just talk at all. But the last time he tried to assist in that area, Nero and Vergil stubbornly picked at their food and ignored each other with maximum effort in the middle of Capulet’s best pizza parlor. Dante made up ninety-nine percent of the conversation through a good mix of false confidence and ineptness, the owner of the restaurant felt so terrible for them he offered their table free dessert and promised a family meal on the house next time they visited. Suffice to say, Dante never wants to live through that experience again. 

With the conversation dwindling, the twins slip into the comfortable silence they’re accustomed to. Dante aimlessly shoots cue balls around in a solo game of billiards, Vergil nabs a book from the shelf Dante keeps around solely for his sake and retires to the couch. Both pray that a heart-to-heart isn’t queued to happen any time soon.

Hours later, Nero stumbles onto the catwalk looking a little like something a basilisk unearthed from the dirt and dragged through an alleyway. He glances down at the shop, jamming his fingers through his unruly hair as a dog-tired yawn worms its way out of his mouth, and is half-shocked to find his father returning his look. His teeth trail across his lips as he resolutely yanks his eyes to the floor as if to command it to swallow him up. After a few more pitiful seconds, Vergil chokes down his bloated pride and delivers Nero from the awkwardness. He ruffles his son’s hair and pulls him into a tentative hug, which Nero does not return because he looks like someone just shot him through the chest. 

“We’re going home,” Vergil says to the air. He leads the way out of Devil May Cry as Nero scrambles to keep up with him. He yanks on the tennis shoes he left at the foot of the stairs and trips fantastically over himself while tying the laces. 

As he hurries out the door, he just catches the easygoing smile Dante’s got on him—a promise to follow through on what they talked about. Nero shoots him a blinding grin, excited for the future. 

* * *

Dante spends the better part of the next morning and afternoon plucking Nevan’s strings with as much enthusiasm as he imagines Nero uses when partaking in piano lessons. She guides him through a catch-all bunch of warm-up exercises and by _guides,_ Dante means she electrocutes him whenever he strums a chord wrong. 

_“You cretin,”_ Nevan huffs, revving up to shock him again. _“You’re doing it wrong!”_

“Sorry,” Dante mutters. He doesn’t show it but he’s reached his limit and is ready to throw in the towel. The only reason he refuses is that he told Nero he’d help. Sure, Dante won’t tag himself as loyal but he’ll always make a special exception for his nephew. 

Fortunately, at that moment, he’s spared any more bullshit when Nero stomps into Devil May Cry and hauls his school bag into the corner. He puts his hands on his hips as if to say: ‘Well, what are you waiting for?!’ 

Dante, in all his dramatic glory, puts a palm against Nero’s chest and shoves him down onto the couch. His nephew is sent sprawling onto his back as Dante snorts, mirth dancing around him. As Nero sets himself upright, Dante gingerly lifts Nevan from his lap and places her in Nero’s hands. She’s the perfect bass for him to learn on. Her strings are strong, built to withstand the sharpest of claws, even Sparda’s. The Devil Bringer is no match for her. 

“First things first,” Dante says. He holds his hands out demonstratively and wiggles his fingers. “Stretches. 

Nero’s lips tighten into a grimace. Stretching is the worst part of wanting to play an instrument, of wanting to do anything at all with your hands for extended periods of time. The bass is no exception. 

Dante tries to make it as painless and short as possible but he can’t rush the health and safety part of this. He can screw up his hands and fingers and wrists as many times as he wants, there will be no consequences. But Nero is different. The blood that pulses through his veins lacks the component his father’s and uncle’s has that keeps them in peak physical condition almost 24/7. He can’t avoid the inherent destruction of being human but Dante can at least help him lower the risks. 

Nero counts down the last few seconds of the final stretch, then blows out a breath and shakes his hands. 

“Freedom at last,” he whispers just loud enough for his teachers to hear him. “Alright, what now?”

“We’re just gonna play some basic triads.” Dante gently helps Nero get his fingers into a simple position, resting easily on the strings. “Press down hard, just like that. Yep. Now, play C.”

A rippling choked sound rolls off of Nevan’s body. Nero winces, _knowing_ how undeniably bad it is, and paws at his ears in irritation. Dante tries to refrain from a similar expression but Nero must see it regardless because his face falls. 

_“It’s alright,”_ Nevan assures him. It doesn’t take a genius to tell it’s a lie, Nero senses emotions almost as well as he senses demons, so he’s aware Nevan’s in pain. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength. If you don’t get calluses while playing, you’ll never get better.” 

Nero exhales in dejection for the first of many times over these agonizing lessons but he’s got the ole Sparda fire flickering in his belly, strong and obstinate, it spurns the very notion of snuffing itself out. He persists through every beginner’s triad, trial and error nipping at the fraying strings of his mind with only the eagerness of his instructors pulling him through. 

Nevan is endlessly patient with him in a way she wasn’t with Dante, showing him each scale and arpeggio and taking his mistakes in stride no matter the unintentional trouble Nero inflicts. After an hour, however, Nero’s patience begins to wear thin and even he snaps his fangs at every little correction. So Dante sends him off to get a glass of water. 

Because he has to ruin the mood, Dante points out Nevan’s hypocrisy with as little finesse as he can. 

She has the good sense not to announce her threats aloud. 

**_‘I will destroy you.’_ **

* * *

Three days later and the opening of Dante’s favorite Houston track comes as easy to Nero as eating homemade apple pie. The strings are hot on his fingers as he picks them in rapid succession, one note to the next with quickened ease, fierce and urged on by his growing self-worth. The flames of achievement crawl through his veins. He could fight a thousand demons with the energy amassing within him. 

He vigorously strikes the final chord and lets the note fade from the bedroom until there’s only silence. He’s home alone today and can play as much as he wants until his father returns from his job far after midnight. His imagination chugs like a steam engine, picking up speed as it climbs higher and higher into the skills he wants to claw into his collection. 

_If he kept going, he could probably learn how to play the guitar._ One of those really cool electric guitars like the one he’s had his eyes on since he was six. It’s deep blue fading to violet, glitzy and shimmering in the window of the vintage music shop he likes to hang out in. It’s never been bought, even after a decade, but the shop owner diligently holds onto it and Nero vows it’ll be his one day. Just as soon as his dad lets him tag along on the heftier jobs and actually collect cash from clients. 

Not yet though. 

Soon but not yet. 

“You’re doing really well,” Nevan praises, lifting him from his thoughts. 

He flops down onto the bed, careful of how she’s lying across his lap, and makes an ‘eeeh, so-so’ motion with his hands. He can play decently, just that one song, even if well so far. Her praise isn’t merited. Before Nevan can tell him off for being a fool, however, the front door below clatters open and closed. A buzzing shot of adrenaline goes through Nero as the cool rasp of his father’s voice enters the house. 

“Nero, I’m home!” 

Nero, the renowned devil hunter he is, freezes in place. He can hear his dad striding around in the living room as he extracts himself from his gear and starts for the second floor.

“Son?” 

Vergil is two seconds away from stepping into Nero’s bedroom to check on him. It’s a habit ingrained into Vergil’s very being and has been around for what Nero _knows_ has been his entire life. Any other time, this would make his insides melt into soft gooeyness, his father fretting for his safety, loving and cherishing him as he should. But right now, it’s the most inconvenient thing _ever_ because his father isn’t supposed to be back until much later and he’s—Nero checks the watch around his wrist—five hours early. The sun hasn’t even set yet. 

Vergil comes closer to his room with every quiet stride forward. Torn between coming clean and shoving Nevan into his overcrowded closet, Nero figures he should rely on his gut instinct, which, after so much fizzing into static and screeching **_oh no_** on repeat (helpful), manages to culminate into one coherent thought: _Throw her out the window._

But Nero can’t actually throw Nevan out the window, there’s no telling what kind of damage that could inflict. Unfortunately, his body is way more reliant on his instincts than he realizes and moves automatically. He only has a singular moment of horror to think _‘instincts bad’_ when Vergil walks in. 

“There you are.” Vergil stands in the doorway, unsuspecting of Nero’s guilt. “Is everything alright?”

Nero is painfully aware of the absence of Nevan’s weight in his hands as he anticipates the crash of her body shattering against the ground outside. It never comes, instead, he gets a telepathic mouthful of the most creative cursing he’s heard since a Shadow mounted Trish on a pike. 

**_‘WHAT THE FUCK, NERO!?’_** Nevan screams in his mind. 

He isn’t sure if he should be relieved or petrified that she’s in speaking condition. There is no calming technique in all the stages of existence that could keep him from violently losing his shit in remarkable fashion right here in front of his father. 

“Yep,” Nero pipes, his pitch higher than he’d like it to be. “Was just coming down to greet you.” 

“Oh,” that’s all Vergil says. He narrows his eyes, gradually picking up on the anxiety droning around his son. “I see.” He chooses his words with such care, Nero is one-hundred percent certain Vergil is trying to psych him out. He’s done so plenty of times already. “Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you come downstairs and help me make dinner?” 

“Sure!” Nero shouts. “Would love to!” He makes a beeline for Vergil’s figure, ceremoniously spins him around, and shoves him out the door. 

“Just give me a few minutes to pick my room up and I’ll be right there. I know how you get when this place isn’t clean.” Nero does a quick sweep and utters a mental oath. Save for a few articles of clothing, his room is already tidied up from yesterday. He could do without the bad timing of his decisions coming back to bite him. “See you in a minute!” 

Vergil opens his mouth to protest. Nero shuts the door on him, cutting him off. 

Both ends hold their breath for a tortuously harrowing span of time, neither side carrying themselves so much as an inch. The only sound on the property is Nero’s watch tallying the seconds as lethargic as a snail on a warm, Summer day— _tick, tick, tick._ An eternity in Nero’s brain slogs on when Vergil cedes and departs to the kitchen on the lower floor. It’s only when there’s sole quietude that Nero lets himself crumble.

He sprints to the window so blindingly quick, he might as well have teleported there. Joy gushes from him in an overpowering waterfall. Nevan hangs from the window sill in her demon form, low-backed dress exposing her pale green skin and locks of scarlet hair cascading around her curves. Her glower stabs through him mercilessly. 

“You are so lucky I like you,” Nevan hisses as Nero offers her his wrist to haul her back inside. Her ruby red lips pinch in a snarl when she catches his apologetic smile. 

“Sorry.” Nero doesn’t have much else to give her. Nothing she’d take pleasure in, anyway. A misjudgment in his own strength yanks Nevan further in than either of them would like. Being the personification of grace, she collapses against him with much more force than Nero anticipates and they both tumble to the floor. Nero flushes pink to the tips of his ears, feeling a bit like one of the edgier people from school who hide their partners from their parents. He wants to drown his brain in a bucket of bleach and scrub the memory of this entire night into oblivion. 

Nevan takes note of the kid’s reaction. A shower of white sparks burst from her form, transforming her back into the bass Nero has been practicing on. Suddenly remembering that his dad could come calling for him any second now, among a slew of other things that make him so intramurally spastic, Nero clambers to his feet and gingerly places Nevan in the corner on the instrument stand he finagled from his uncle’s shop. 

“I’ll make it up to you!” Nero promises, hurtling out the door. He’d like to be as far away from Nevan as possible. 

He doesn’t have time for Kyrie to kill him. 

* * *

“That’s wrong. Try again.” 

Nero grumps, smothering the growl scratching in his throat. He readjusts his pinky so it’s a half-step lower. His father recounts the tempo, tapping his foot against the floor. The repetition sticks in Nero’s head, like an infuriating itch that refuses to be eased. _Tap, tap, tap._

Choppily, the piano sings out the perfect pitch of D, then A, then B, F#, G, D, G, A… Vergil says nothing about how the leverage falls onto every note with too much stress or the lack of elation Nero displays when punching through each of the keys. 

He does scold Nero, however, when he plays a seventh instead of an octave. “You need to extend your fingers more. From the top.” 

For the umpteenth time, Nero begins the song. The serrated nails of his Devil Bringer clack menacingly on the ivories, puncturing every note. D, A, B, F#. _Tap, tap, tap-_ and he misses again. 

Vergil frowns. “Nero-” 

“I know!” Nero snaps, gritting his teeth. “I know it’s wrong. You don’t need to tell me.” 

The piano bench screams against the wooden floor as Nero shoves off it and stomps into the kitchen. Vergil trails close behind, not keen on letting this go when his son is upset. Nero wrenches a plastic cup from the cupboard and holds it underneath the running facet. He gulps down a full cup of water, refills it, and drinks it down again, clear streams dribbling down his face. Vergil stills, just observing much to Nero’s chagrin. It seeps into his gut and wriggles around, a red-hot snake swimming in a vat of aggravation soup threatening to boil over. _Why wouldn’t this asshole just say something?_

“I’m having a hard time grasping what’s so difficult about this,” Vergil finally says. _Finally,_ and it’s not what Nero wants to hear. It’s the exact opposite. 

“It’s a stupid piece!” He explodes. 

“It’s a simple one,” Vergil corrects. 

“Why am I even learning how to play it!?”

“You asked-” 

“I didn’t ask how to do _this!_ ”

“And ‘this’ is… _what_ exactly?” 

Nero falters, frozen by the look Vergil is giving him. It sticks out from his boyhood, stark and cutting, a frown pulled tight and brows furrowed downward, hard eyes slicing through the front of testiness Nero puts up. It’s just like Vergil to give the idea that he sees through it all, to act like he knows what’s wrong with Nero when the raw truth of the matter is that they haven’t had a normal discussion since before Nero started high school. They can communicate what’s for dinner, where Nero chooses to hang out, where Vergil is going for his next job, when they’re both expected to be back. It’s a necessity. 

But these days, an unremarkable conversation always ends in a fight. Always over the pettiest of things, _over piano lessons._ It drives Nero crazy that he can’t ever seem to tell Vergil what he means, every time he tries he’s always broken by a towering fear he can’t seem to place. He isn’t scared of his father, he senses that deep in his soul. But when he stares up at Vergil, his tongue seizes in his mouth and his throat swells shut. It’s not his father he’s afraid of but something else. 

Vergil sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t see how you’re having trouble with this,” Vergil suddenly says. “Even a toddler could manage this.” 

He looks his age, younger than he should be if he has a teenage son but old enough that one can see the small wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. There’s wear and tear to his figure, wounds left unhealed, broad scars that he’s never spoken of, stuff that Nero would kill for if his father would say something about himself instead of criticizing every action not his own. 

As naive as it is, the child in Nero wants to have the mild-mannered, gentle father he recollects from so long ago. He craves their life when things were easy and Nero didn’t have a filter and his father eagerly heard every bit with a smile and all the belief that nothing better than Nero could ever happen to him. He wants them to stop fighting, to be able to feel like he can say anything without it being judged. But he just can’t see it happening. 

“Why can’t you?” 

A sharp crack splits the air. Silence blankets the house. 

Nero feels all the breath whoosh out of his lungs as they’re punctured by those words. A frigid chill suffuses into his bones, accompanied by a tremor of hurt and hate and _choler._ This is the answer, Nero realizes, as to why they can never find peace in each other’s presence, why Nero can’t ever seem to shake this lingering shadow of there being something _wrong._ He understands now, it’s not his father he’s afraid of but his expectations. 

“So, that’s it then?” He whispers. “It’s because I can’t be your flawless, talented child?” 

Vergil starts, his eyes wide as a burst of panic and regret fall across his face. He is the speechless one, unable to bring life to his voice _like a fool_. Even if he could, it wouldn’t matter. He can’t pull the words back from where they’re draped over his son’s shoulders, a heavyweight of what he thinks Nero should be that he can’t ever be. 

Everything suddenly comes pouring out of Nero, an avalanche of pure emotion and sheer cold propelled by an angry echo of things lost over the years. “It’s because I can’t live up to your expectations? I can’t be good at everything you want me to be good at? Fine, I get it, I’m the screw-up!” Nero casts his arms out in a grand _‘fuck you_ ’ gesture, heading straight towards his room. He can’t stay here. Each little bit about his father is pissing him off, especially that look of trepidation he’s got because it’s so unlike the usual snap and snarl Vergil fights back with. Where’s his bite? Where’s his pride? “But at least I’m my own screw-up, with my own interests outside of yours! I won’t let you mold me into whatever _you_ want!” 

Nero marches halfway up the stairs, the sting of tears threatening to overcome. 

“Nero,” Vergil rasps out, giving chase. His fingers barely curl around Nero’s wrist when Nero jerks away. 

“Don’t touch me!” He turns on Vergil with all the fury of the sun and stars, his voice cracking with barely-contained loathing. “If you don’t like what I am, why do you even pretend to be my father?” 

Nero hates the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. He doesn’t mean them, aches to believe they’re not true, that he’s not _right._ But the aura of silent shock floating around Vergil won’t disprove him. His throat dries out and he can’t muster an apology or a plea for his father to comfort him. There’s nothing. Nero steels his resolve and scurries the rest of the way to his room. 

Vergil barely has the sense of mind to call after him, desperate to right what he’s made wrong. 

“Nero!” 

The bedroom door flings shut, the noise bouncing off the vacant, lonely walls. Vergil’s heart pounds against his chest, running high off of fear and remorse. If he had any more ability to think, he’d despise himself for tearing the rift between him and his son even wider. But as he stands, he can only summon the strength to sink to the floor, body sliding down against the wall, until he can safely drop his head into hands and break apart in the comfort of his solitude. 

“Dammit,” he seethes at himself. _“Dammit.”_


	2. Second Movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vincent: A character from the anime that I am absolutely giving more personality to because Dante deserves friends. I'm also including Lucia because she deserves to be remembered. No regrets, none. 
> 
> Bonus Game: Just for fun, if any of you can guess the song that's been a prominent theme throughout this fic, then you get... uh... bragging rights! You're awesome!

The night shunts Nero through the entrance to Devil May Cry once more, this time at 2 AM. Dante is halfway through knocking back a golden shot of whiskey on his play of Devil Dice. He scoops up the dice and shoots a perfect pair of snake eyes. He’s on a lucky streak tonight. 

“Bullshit!” Lady shrieks. “You’re playing with loaded dice!” 

“Strong accusation,” Dante croons as the doors slam shut. His laughter resounds in his chest and coaxes out joy from all the friends he’s invited over—Trish, Lucia, Vincent, Morrison. It choruses in the air with well-wishes and friendly banter thrown around like playing darts. It’s a good night. As Lady continues chewing him out, he notes Nero leaning back against the doors, hands tucked into his coat pockets and hood half-hazardly wrenched over his head. He clears his throat and tips out of his chair, brushing off his shirt and the attention of his company. “Hey, kid. What are you doing here? It’s late.” 

Nero’s shoulders go up and down in a rolling motion. He ambles forward, seemingly self-conscious of all the staring he’s taking on. A sense of discomfort yanks in Dante’s chest as he leans down real close to whisper to his nephew. “Your dad being a moron again?” 

Nero barely nods his head. Dante pulls back and laughs, pretending he just heard a joke. The last thing his nephew needs is for the personal part of the family business to get spread around to people he’s never met. He points at Vincent, snagging his regard as Dante’s liable to do so long as he just exists in a room,  _ the attention hog.  _

“‘ey, Vince!” He puts a big, affectionate hand on Nero’s head. He beckons Vincent over with the other. “Get over ‘ere, let me introduce you to my nephew.” 

Vincent, assertively yanked from his latest attempt at flirting Trish into his bed, swings his legs over the edge of the couch and gets up to greet the boy. His boots rattle on the ground, decked out with so much biking regalia there’s more of it than actual soles holding him up. His soft brown hair is pulled out of his face for the night and his brown eyes encompass darkness only newbie hunters fresh off their first demon encounter have. He emanates a strong aura similar to Dante’s: cool and easy-going, lacking demonic undertones but holding onto an unspoken  _ don’t fuck with me  _ vibe. 

“Vince,” Dante says, slinging an arm around Nero’s shoulders. He feels the tension in his nephew’s body and narrows his eyes, analyzing all the possible things his idiot brother could have said to send Nero here again. “This is Nero. He’s a good kid, got a helluva mouth on him, though. Ain’t that right, Nero?” 

Nero keeps quiet. A stab of fear ricochets off Dante’s ribs in earnest, twining around his lungs until they ache. He sincerely hopes Nero isn’t so deep into it with his brother that he’s on the verge of crying. It’s the precise last thing he’s capable of soothing. If he is, Dante is going to manhandle Vergil out the front door of his house and smack him around with Rebellion for a good long while, among a drove of other violent shit that Dante knows better than to think about at the moment. Suddenly, Nero lifts his head, a tilt of challenge to it, and flashes Vincent a toothy smile. 

“Fuck yeah, I do!” 

Everyone erupts into peels of laughter, brightening the room with as much vivacity as before. Vincent clutches his stomach, already enamored by Nero’s presence. Dante’s more than glad for the distraction as he takes the opportunity to grasp for the breath he hadn’t known he lost. He calls for a pause to the game, which Lady accepts with minimal fuss. Even if she’s the least level-headed out of all of them she has enough practicality to be less than tipsy around the dumb teens who swing around the shop. 

“Hey, Uncle Dante!” Nero pipes out as he slides onto the desk. “Can I ask you something?” 

Dante maneuvers into his desk chair, taken by curiosity. “You already have. But shoot.” 

“Do you know of any tattoo parlors in the city?” 

All at once, Trish chokes on the last remaining shot of whiskey, Lady nearly takes Vincent’s head off with a pool stick, and Morrison howls with more vigor than anyone in the world. Dante blanks on the question, wondering if this is Nero going, ‘I need to know because I’m going to get a tattoo and I’m hiding it from you,’ or ‘I need to know because a friend asked and I figured  _ you’d _ know.’ Dante hopes it isn’t the first but just in case, he decides it’s time to be responsible again. (Boo, this is a scam. It’s drinking night.)

“You don’t want a tattoo.”

“How would you know?” Nero asks. 

“Trust me, you don’t.” Dante leaps over the desk and sits on top of it next to his nephew. “That stuff’s permanent. You need to think about it for a long time before you get one.” 

“What makes you think I didn’t think about it?” 

“Oh, I’m sure you thought about it.” He playfully cuffs the back of Nero’s head. “You thought about getting one just to piss someone else off.” 

That unspoken someone is Vergil but no else needs to know that. The spite runs thick in this family, though Dante is having a hard time parsing how Nero decided that a petty revenge tattoo would be the way to go when this is (probably) about music lessons. (Probably.)

“He’s right.” Lucia, who has been quiet throughout the duration of drinking games and Nero’s bright and shining aura, suddenly makes herself heard. She pushes off from the catwalk railing and floats to the bottom floor with unattainable agility, poetry in motion. “To make a permanent mark on yourself to get back at someone you dislike, it’s reckless. You’d have to live with it for the rest of your life, risk regretting ever having done such a thing to yourself.” 

She looks away for a moment, glassy-eyed with remorse. “I should know.” 

This might be a bit too much gloominess for the kid, Dante decides as he makes little  _ nix-nix  _ motions underneath his chin. It’s a good lesson for him to learn but this would be better suited for a day his nephew doesn’t have so much on his plate. Lucia graciously takes the hint and puts herself in Business Mode—stern and authoritative, unlike the unhealthier members of the Devil May Cry circle.

“Why would you want a tattoo anyway?” She asks. 

Nero shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be a tattoo. I just want to-” He gestures to himself, visibly frustrated with not having the word he’s looking for. “ _ -ornament,  _ myself. I guess.”

Right, Dante’s positive it’s just that. No sarcasm attached. 

“You could get a piercing,” Vincent says, looking up from sinking a striped ball. “It’s not permanent and it makes a good ornament.” He backs away from Lady’s hair-brained shot, expressly ignoring Dante’s seething  _ ‘no bad influences’ _ glower. “So if you aim to get back at someone, it’s not a bad idea.”

Dante smacks his palm against his forehead, surrendering all impressions that he could rely on his buddies to behave. Next to him, Nero livens up. Quick like a thunderbolt, he jumps to hounding Vincent for info with stars in his eyes. If Dante didn’t know any better, he’d think Nero found a new favorite non-parent person to hang out with that’s not him. Which is impossible because Nero loves him the most and he’d be devastated to discover otherwise. 

A few minutes later, Trish has pulled out an assortment of earrings she keeps in a jewelry box  _ somewhere  _ in Dante’s shop that he’s now hell-bent on hunting down. He and Trish are almost roommates, though she’s hard to nail in place. She comes and goes whenever she pleases, encroaches into everyone’s space in any event, and perches in the rafters, agile and lean. The demonic embodiment of a cat. She’s been doing this for a good six years and he’s rarely observed her wearing jewelry and never once seen her squirreling it away in their apartment. It’s probably a good thing he’s busy gauging the location of her stash, it’ll keep him from acting too much like an adult and raining on Nero’s piercing parade. 

Meanwhile, Nero finds himself a place on the floor, bouncing up and down as Trish and Vincent explain the types of piercings for him. Lucia occasionally adds her input to the prattle while Lady watches on in amusement. She strays away from self-ornamentation, her acrobatics in battle prevent her from anything of the sort and she’s more than okay with it. 

“Alright.” Trish spreads her hands out. “What kind would you like?”

Nero studies each of the piercings, slow and drawn out. He would ask why he can’t just go to a parlor to get it done but the fact that  Trish  is offering tells him he should just take her up on it. Eventually, he settles on a simple black stud. Trish smirks. 

“I thought you might like that one.” 

In the background, Dante whacks his head against the desk when trying to come up from underneath it. 

“Hey, Dante!” Trish calls. He pops up like a gopher from the ground, anticipating the lightning-flecked shout she’s going to hurl at him. Instead, he gets a thoughtful gesture. “Come here. You should witness this.” 

“Me?” The word tastes like sand on his tongue. 

“Yes, you. I’m going to teach you how to do this in the event Nero decides he wants another one and I can’t do it.” Then she decides to impale him in the chest, no bars held. “Besides, Nero trusts you.” 

Dante, rightfully out of breath, warily treads over the conglomeration of people on the floor and plops down right in front of his starry-eyed nephew. 

“You really wanna do this?” 

_ “Yes.”  _ Nero sounds so sure of himself that Dante decides  _ to hell with acting like an adult.  _ He has a reputation to maintain as the Fun Uncle. And clearly, Vergil has fucked something up, so Dante’s going to abet Nero's ventures of teenage rebellion, anything to stick it to his idiot brother. Trish flashes him a grin, indicating they have the same line of thought. Few things bring them closer than tag-teaming Vergil using his kid— _ his kryptonite _ —against him _.  _ It’s jackassery of the highest order, bound to get them chased halfway across the city. But it wouldn’t be worth doing if it didn’t put them in danger. 

She and Vincent meander about to grab a couple more things, babbling on about avoiding infection and some other responsible junk that Nero doesn’t listen to. He obediently turns his head so Vincent can numb all the feeling in his right ear with a cube of ice and briefly makes eye contact with Dante. Something akin to shame crosses his features before he glances away. With all the righteousness of a chocolate eclair, Dante aims to lovingly scruff Nero’s hair when he can’t move a muscle to avoid it and earns himself a scowl in response. He gingerly tilts Nero’s chin up with his hand. 

“Hey, you know he loves you, right?” He’s quiet when he tells Nero this, wary of the way Trish considerately tips her ears away from the conversation. She elbows Vincent in the side and reprimands something he’s doing, distracting him. 

Nero stays quiet for a good while. The only sounds in the shop are Trish and Vincent arguing about the amount of peroxide needed for the size of stud picked out and Lady occasionally throwing in her compliments. Lucia hovers around the perimeter of the action, curiously peering at the needle Trish is superheating with a lighter. Morrison probably says Dante’s name in the mix but he won’t pay attention to it when family’s priority. 

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” Nero replies, half-pouting half-retaining his scowl. 

“I know.” Boy, does Dante understand. He can’t explain how much he empathizes with this kind of situation, Vergil has been emotionally-stunted for as long as he can remember. Even as a baby. “He’s always been like that.” 

“I wish he wasn’t.” 

“Ditto.” 

Dante can offer to talk to Vergil about this bullshit but he won’t. It’ll end in bloodshed and getting absolutely nowhere in their shaky relationship. He isn’t going to risk putting Nero out about his father any more than whatever already has. Dante almost scoffs. Vergil better draft a three page thank you letter for all the trouble Dante’s going through for him. 

“Finished,” Trish half-sings, pulling out of Nero’s personal space bubble. 

Nero jolts, stumbling over his words. “Already? But- but that was so fast. I didn’t even notice it!” 

“Then it was done correctly. Go take a look.” 

Nero jackknifes upward and darts for the nearest mirror—a compact Lucia holds out for him. He snatches it out of her hands and examines the stud, completely awestruck and the biggest grin stretching out across his face. He whirls on Trish and Vincent. 

“I LOVE IT!” 

Trish has an easygoing smile, having predicted the outcome. Vincent hides his face in his hands, bashful beyond measure in a way Dante didn’t think he could be. 

Nero breathlessly flaps his hands, quickly approaching the hyperventilating stage of a fanboy meltdown. “Can you do more?” 

“Sure,” Trish says. “You can have as many as you want.” She turns to Vincent. “What do you think, Vince? Should we get him a tongue piercing next?” 

Vincent’s expression morphs into a simper. “I think a pair on his collarbone would be more fitting, don’t you?” 

They collapse into hysterics as Nero hesitates, now having second thoughts on his opinions about Dante’s friends. When he looks to his uncle, Dante graces him with a friendly eye roll as if to say  _ ‘ignore them, they’re not helpful.’ _ The stress in Nero’s figure gradually melts out of him with a roll of subdued chuckling, comfortable in his uncle’s presence. Dante prides himself on being a safe harbor Nero can flee to when the outside world gets bad but part of him wishes Vergil didn’t constitute something Nero has to escape from in the first place. He won’t admit to anyone but it saddens him that his family is slowly slipping through his fingers again and it’s due to a cause he might not be able to stop. Demons and hunting and adrenaline are one thing, personal issues are another. 

Nero shyly smiles, lighting up the dark ombre for just a brief moment. 

“Maybe not that many…” 

* * *

Nero’s tongue pokes out from between his teeth as he frets the bass strings in order. 

“They’re different.” He pauses, listening to Nevan hum the melody. “Not like the piano.”

“No, not quite. They have similar sounds. But these are tabs.” 

“So, it’s… D?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then G?”

“A,” Nevan corrects. 

“A,” echoes Nero. 

Nero sighs in the dark room. Vergil’s out again tonight. He won’t be coming home early this time and the stark absence of his demonic signature oscillating from the living room or the kitchen or wherever his father withdraws to in the late hours sends a hollow pang through him. 

Vergil scarcely sleeps, usually only when Nero needs him to. He remembers clearly, the last time his father slept. His heart crushed into a fine powder, trudging into his house after dark, stomach sick with lost appetite even as Vergil proffered their family’s trademark spaghetti, and retiring to bed. He remembers craving affection and Vergil seeing through with their wordless language, waiting until Nero crawled into his room an hour later. He remembers the distinct scent of ash and dust and winter pine as his father held him tight in a hug and Nero cried for the first time in years, blubbering about the girl who broke his heart. 

He remembers Vergil adamant that any potential partner stay ten feet away from his son after that, the Yamato always within reach, and how Kyrie managed to snake around him and steal Nero’s heart anyway. He remembers the last time Kyrie visited, his father was always nearby, eying her like a hawk, and how not a single page of homework got completed that day. 

Nero does his best to push the memories from his head. They used to be so much closer. When they were both younger and learning, Vergil spoiled him rotten with hugs and kisses and all the things a teenager considered uncool. Nowadays Vergil always seemed so distant. He certainly was a bit distant when Nero was younger, even cold-hearted in his worst moments, but now it just continued on a downward spiral. Nero has to wonder how long he has until there’s no part of the warm, loving father in the man who nurtured him, how long until they’re both strangers. 

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.” Nero strums the bass, easy and gentle, and hums along to the savory-sweet melody. Up and down, higher and lower. Tears spring to his eyes as he remembers more. 

This song. 

Vergil loved to play it on the violin back then. 

* * *

Nero has a memory hidden away in his mind from his childhood—he’s three or four, sitting on his uncle’s lap as he plays the guitar. His strong hands gingerly cup Nero’s, tiny and searching, every time he reaches for the strings and a soft chuckle rumbles in his chest. There’s a cloudy mist where Dante’s voice should be, a soft and amused tone that warms him to the depths of his soul. He conceivably shouldn’t be able to remember since it was so long ago but it replays in his mind sometimes when he has family on the brain. He thinks it’s where his love of the guitar came from. 

He twangs uselessly over the sentient bass in his hands, pouting. He knows he’s unnecessarily angry at heart and that spite led him to the bass instead of the guitar. To be fair, his dad’s at fault too for calling him ‘predictable’ during their first fight over piano lessons. But Nero still wishes he would have asked Dante to teach him guitar anyway. He would be enjoying it way more than the bass right now. 

“Hey, kid.” Dante snaps his fingers. “Are you paying attention?” 

“Hm, yeah?” Nero says absently. He plucks a string or two, utterly drained from the past few days. Where fire once blazed, there’s now just ash and dust frail enough to be scattered by a breeze. 

He reaches up to rub at his ears, although Trish told him not to fiddle with any of his piercings until he’d had time to adjust. He has a few new ones: two black helixes parallel to one another and another gem stud on his upper lobe to neighbor the original one. 

“Jeez,” Dante groans, hunching forward. “I’m getting depressed just looking at you.” 

When Nero doesn’t bother with a comeback, he strums out the melody to a rock chorus, murmuring the lyrics to himself. The crunch of the bassline rocks and wheels about, almost as beautiful as the original song, one he and Nero have listened to on weekends spent in Devil May Cry eating pizza and cracking jokes and sharing stories from the battlegrounds of a hunt gone horribly out of whack in the funniest way possible. But even this isn’t enough to lift Nero’s mood and drag a song number out of him. 

Dante feels his wrath building up again. It’s taking every little ounce of control he has not to chuck his bass into a closet, bid Rebellion to his side, and run Vergil through several times over. His playing gets quicker and more violent and spins out of control until the music chokes itself out in a reflection of Dante’s emotions.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The door to his shop abruptly creaks open, Nero spares his attention and immediately goes stiff. Dante’s gaze lands on the source of all this misery and his demon howls underneath his skin, threatening to break out and blast the rigid frame of his brother into tiny smithereens. The only thing stilling him is Vergil’s own demon baring its teeth in vicious response. That and the fact that Nero really doesn’t need to watch them rip each other’s guts out right now.

“So this is where you’ve been going?” 

Nero swallows. His lips press together but he lifts his head defiantly, prepared to punch back if the situation calls for it. 

_ “Vergil,”  _ Dante warns.  _ He better not, **HE BETTER NOT.** _

“This is why you’re no longer at home?” Vergil persists, ignoring his brother with zero effort. He crosses his arms steps over to Nero, towering above him, looming like a shadow. Dante fidgets, tempted to insert himself between Vergil and Nero before it breaks out into a fight. If it does, Dante’s will protect Nero first, he’s certain he can. 

“Yeah,” Nero bites out upon gaining the courage. He glares up at his father, irises taking on a dangerous golden glint. A flurry of glimmering feathers swirl around him as his spectral blue wings struggle to flare out from his shoulders. He’s never been able to hide the screaming demon within him as well as the rest of his family. His fingers move automatically, rocking out the first several measures of Mermaid Rock like it’s as easy as counting to three. Nevan croons approvingly. “Does that piss you off?” 

Vergil angles his head, his brows arched in a surprisingly bewildered rendition. Dante spots the similarities to Nero’s ridiculously cute puppy dog face and then promptly stomps on that thought over and over because no one can rival Nero in cuteness—especially not Vergil. (It’s a given Dante will get stabbed if he voices any of this out loud, so he wisely keeps it to himself.)

“Why would I be mad?” Vergil asks. “If you wanted to play the bass, you could have just asked me to teach you how.” 

Nero and Dante scoff at the same time, both deep-rooted in irritation at the lofty asinine tone Vergil’s got on him but for completely different reasons. Nero because Vergil can’t teach for shit, not the piano, and most likely not the bass or any other instrument for that matter. Dante because Vergil is being an idiot and well-

“ _ You? _ Play the bass?” Nero snarks, though most of it is reflexive hot air, not genuine fire. He’s still put out from their argument. “ _ Right. _ ” 

Vergil wordlessly circles to Dante and yanks the bass out of his hands, knocking him to the floor flat on his face. Dante’s demon flares up because he is  _ so damn close to shoving a claw through his dumbass brother’s fucking stomach, no really, he’s on his last thread of patience here.  _ Before he can act on it, Vergil rights the instrument so it sits comfortably in his arms. His fingers deftly flit over the strings in a magnificent solo that crescendos, sliding across the fretboard, and steals the oxygen from Nero’s body. 

When the final note peters out, Nero can’t formulate a coherent sentence to save his life. After a good chunk of stuttering and fragmented thoughts trying to climb out of him, he settles on a rather eloquent: “ _ Huh? _ ”

“Did you think Dante introduced bass and guitar to me?” Vergil replies as Dante peels himself off the floor. He would riot about now but Nero is so damn confused and honestly… so is he. What the fuck just happened? “I assure you, it’s the other way around.” 

As Nero races to gather the pieces of his brain that just got blown up and pick his jaw up from where it rests on the ground, Vergil mutters an incomprehensible line of verbal thinking and steals a questioning glimpse at Nero. “What’s that song you like again?” He asks.

He studies the strings and how they fit in his hands, then plucks them one at a time, lethargic and experimental before picking up speed in a familiar instrumental backing and he begins to sing. Nero gawks up at him, eyes going as wide as saucers upon the instant recognition of the tune. 

_ “I am the storm that is approaching...” _ Vergil lets the powerful libretto sluice from him in a quiet, controlled stream.  _ “...provoking.”  _

“You…” Nero searches for the words. “You listen to my music?” 

“It’s important to you, isn’t it?” Vergil says it so simply as if that answers the massive influx of questions Nero has but can’t give sound to. Like a stream, cool and invigorating, it comes flowing back to him—his memory of the one playing the guitar. The golden light of Devil May Cry illuminating the faces of his family, the honeyed acoustic music, the guiding hands, the resonating chuckle he felt so long ago. It makes sense now, how Nero could never make out his uncle's words whenever he clung tight to the feeling it brought him. It’s because they never belonged to his uncle in the first place. 

_ “Have patience, child,” his father had said, smoothing Nero’s hair down and righting his child’s position in his lap. “I’ll teach you how to play someday.”  _

Vergil sighs, perhaps in defeat as he steps over his brother and plops down onto the cushion next to Nero. He carefully gives the bass back to Dante, who’s seated criss-cross on the floor at the foot of the couch. He’s since calmed down but is poised to jump in if necessary. 

“Nero,” Vergil says his name as if it’s the most special, beautiful thing in the world. Nero turns his stare down as if submitting without protest will keep this strange, earnest conversation from happening. His tactics don’t work for long. Vergil gently cups Nero’s face and smooths his thumb over the single tear tracking down his son’s cheek. “About… what happened…”

He stalls for a moment, gaze slipping one way or another while foraging for the best way to speak. 

He sighs as if the image of him and Nero yelling at one another and the raucous it contains brings him pain. “You don’t have to be perfect for me to love you. You only need to be my son. You’re allowed to be yourself. And I am _so_ _sorry_ I ever made you think otherwise.”

Nero grits his teeth, trying to muffle a strangled whine. An ocean wells up in his eyes, vast and uncontrollable and frothing, spilling out over Vergil’s hands. 

“Nero?” Vergil, terrified he’s accidentally untethered Nero into that ocean and left him to drown, barely tightens his grip to try to bring him back. “Nero, say something.” 

There’s a stifled sob, then Nero shoves all his weight forward and wraps his arms around his father’s neck. Vergil’s arms go up on reflex, crushing Nero against him in a bone-breaking hug. He inhales and exhales, steadily and repeatedly, basking in the overwhelming flood of euphoria sweeping them away, soft and bracing like the sun. He feels Nero’s body shudder against his as he toils to get a hold of himself, regain his voice so he can finally,  _ finally  _ talk to his father like he’d been dying to do for years. 

“I’m sorry too!” He manages through his tears. He doesn’t say what for but there’s no reason for him to. 

“You don’t need to apologize, son.” Vergil extricates himself from Nero’s grasp, wiping the crystalline tears away with gentle movements. “I should have listened to you sooner, more than that, I never should have made you afraid of needing me.” He waits for a beat, his own apprehension tying a rope of wavering around him “If you’ll let me, I can do better.” 

“Yeah. I’d like that,’ Nero says wetly, swiping a sleeve over his eyes. 

Dante huffs from the ground, wondering why he’d been so het up to destroy this in the first place when he knew Vergil had a gushy, blooming interior unfurling to unearth the light and worship it. A lovable, horrible, sticky-sweet softie who couldn’t resist his son’s radiance in the slightest. Nero still has a wealth of things to learn, such as how to control his emotions and how to speak from the heart, he has a long way to go but at least the journey has eased up with Vergil there to lessen the burden. Nevan snorts from her place, having slipped from Nero’s hold to avoid being squashed between these two saps Dante called family. She ventures to say something about all this when Vergil swiftly cuts through. 

“Nero…” There’s a pause as Vergil brushes his son’s hair away and notes the new ornaments adorning Nero’s right ear. “What is this?” 

A nervous chuckle hovers about as Nero skitters to explain his new piercings. “Hahaha… ha… about that. I just remembered something important and I can’t explain it now but I will probably-”

“Nero.” 

“-be able to do that soon, soooooo…” 

Nero has slipped off the couch and halfway up the stairs to the catwalk by the time Vergil moves to his feet. He gears himself towards Nero’s awkward venture to remove his presence from the ground floor of Devil May Cry, anticipating the precise moment he has to pounce to put an end to it. 

“Nice talk, dad! Bye!” Nero shoots like a bullet past the catwalk and into the apartment above the shop. 

Vergil takes flight not a second too late when something grabs his foot and trips him, forcing him to put his arms out to break his fall. He looks back to find Dante with his hand wrapped around his ankle, laughing like the mother of all assholes as he exacts on-the-spot karma. Vengeance never tasted so good. Vergil breaks free, already on the precipice of a demon king level breakdown. 

“Nero!” He roars. He glowers at Dante, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I know this was your doing- you.  _ You’re next. I’m going to kill you. _ ” He darts up past the catwalk, hot on Nero’s heels as Dante cackles like a madman, not even doubting the seriousness of that threat but too fucking gleeful to care. “NERO!!!” 

* * *

The next time Dante invites his family over for a jam session, he takes note of Nero’s brand new guitar. It’s an old, gaudy thing but its sound is easy on the ears and mixes well with the mood of the shop and Nero has the biggest grin on his face so he can’t bring himself to sift out a single blemish in the perfection of the moment. 

He eagerly leans back in his chair, feet kicked up onto his desk, and absorbs this brand new duet—Nero’s guitar and Vergil’s bass, dancing in blissful harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Hailsyy) for more shenanigans and updates on all my stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not. 
> 
> Also shhhhh, Nevan's a bass, shhhhhhhhhhhh


End file.
